


Drarry in Paris

by Dropsofarainbow219



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Books, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gay, Holidays, Like, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Slash, Summer Vacation, idfk literally theres no plot ok, its referenced, oh there r tags for that, ok cool, very very light bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7780120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dropsofarainbow219/pseuds/Dropsofarainbow219
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” says Harry, smiling deviously. “I brought the ball gag with us.”</p><p>Draco stops and turns to face Harry, his eyes wide. </p><p>“Harry,” he says, his voice aghast. “They’ll have seen it at security.”</p><p> xxxxxxxx</p><p>Literally, the fucking title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drarry in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> There is no plot in this. None.

“Fuck it's hot,” says Harry, his hand luggage rolling noisily behind him as they make their way up the connecting ramp. Draco glances over and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“I told you you didn't need that extra jacket.”

 

“Fuck,” Harry says again, panting as they step out from behind the glass barricade of the air-conditioned air-port and onto the dusty pavement. “This really isn't England, huh.”

 

Draco goes ahead and rolls his eyes.

 

Once their taxi has dragged them through the thick, sluggish air of the city to their hotel, they check in and head on up. Draco unzips the suitcase as Harry drops eagle-spread onto the neatly arranged covers of the double bed. 

 

“You better not be making my side all sweaty,” Draco remarks, standing up and heading over to the bathroom, his arms full of hair products. Harry looks up and grins brightly at him, before rolling over and rubbing his face vigorously into the left pillow.

 

“Fuck you.” Draco walks back into the room, but before he can bend over to retrieve his four body lotions, Harry leans over and curls an arm around his waist. Draco grabs his hair as the other boy rubs his face into Draco’s belly.

 

“Come here,” says Harry. “You can mess up my side.”

 

Draco dips his fingers briefly under the collar at the back of Harry's shirt, before straightening back up.

 

“Go make a mess in the shower.” He says, reaching over for his lotions.

 

* * *

 

 The first thing they do is go for a walk along the seine.

 

“It's romantic.” Harry had said before they left.

 

“It's not,” Draco had said. “It smells like piss.”

 

They are strolling along now, their linked hands swinging between them.

 

“See,” Draco is saying. “The ripening scent of homeless people's urine. It's sharp on the nose.”

 

Harry drops his hand and Draco frowns.

 

 “Jesus,” he says, stepping away. “It's bloody boiling.”

 

Draco quirks a brow. “It isn't that warm.” He says, even though it is.

“Christ,” says Harry. “I feel as if I need to tear my skin off.”

 

“Don't,” says Draco. “It would ruin your complexion.”

 

Harry reaches over his shoulders and pulls off his shirt in one go. His brown skin gleams under the yellow sunlight, and his hair gets ruffled even messier. The bridge of his glasses is slipping down his nose.

 

“Well,” Draco huffs, “that's just explicit.”

 

Harry glances over at him as bunches the poor shirt in his hands and smiles with all of his teeth.

 

“It's selfish.” says Draco. “Making the innocent French public endure the abnormal planes of your nudity, all because you-“

 

“What's wrong with my planes?” asks Harry, slinging an arm over Draco's shoulders. Draco just scowls.

 

“You're sweaty.”

 

“That's good,” says Harry, still smiling. “It's the chemical in male sweat that releases the gay into your brain.”

 

Draco scowls deeper, and doesn't move away. “I bet you don't even know what it's called.” He mutters, and Harry presses his lips to the side of Draco's temple.

 

They end up making their way into an unusual bookshop. _“Shakespeare and company.”_   reads the front in big, quirky lettering. Draco gives Harry a pointed look, and squeezes his hand.

 

“Shakespeare wouldn't want you entering his company dressed like that.”

 

“Shakespeare had a boyfriend.” Harry points out, but ducks his head as he drags the shirt back over his torso.

 

Inside, books are stacked on books as if this is the home of some 19th century warlock, and not a functioning bookstore. Draco climbs an old rickety ladder with secret delight, and feels Harry's eyes on him as his fingers are brushing over the spines of a pretty hardback set.

 

“What?” He says, looking down, but Harry's eyes just shine and he shakes his head.

 

“What are you looking at?” He asks.  

 

“Daphne du Maurier.” Draco pulls out _“Frenchman’s creek”_ and hands it to Harry.

 

“Are they good? Oh, wait! I know her.” Harry looks up. “Rebecca?”

 

“Yeah,” says Draco, raising both eyebrows. “She's not bad. Well, I mean. A bit boring. A lot of it is just romance with rugged men who are blatantly poor choices for the quivering female protagonists, but-“

 

Draco cuts himself off and frowns at the volume in front of him.

 

“You needn't look so surprised.” says Harry, amused. “I read.”

 

“I know you read.” Draco begins to climb back down the ladder.

 

“Do you?” He can just hear Harry’s grin get wider.

 

“I know you read.” Draco says, turning away and pretending to peruse the next shelf. “I just didn't know you liked love stories.”

 

“Well,” says Harry, leaning his hip against an overused table. “I can't help it if my rugged tastes occasionally tend that way.”

 

Draco's cheeks get warm, and he squeezes down further into the narrow aisle as Harry chuckles behind him.

 

* * *

 

 It’s only later when it seems to dawn on Harry that shopping in another country is not as simple a task as one uncultured British plebeian might presume.

 

“Literally, what the fuck is jambon?” says Harry, flipping a plastic packet in one hand and frowning. “I just want some ham.”

 

“That _is_ ham.” Draco sighs, and ties off the bagful of apples before plopping it in the trolley.

 

“Why is there a ladybird on it? With eyelashes? How is that even related?”

 

“Honestly, Harry,” Draco murmurs, pushing the trolley along to the frozen section. “With this kind of denigration, you’ll never assimilate.”

 

Harry is suddenly reaching over him, and returns with his arms full of Doritos.

 

Draco shoots him a glare.

 

“No,” he says, his voice low.

 

“Draco-“

 

“There is no time to eat all of those. Put back three.”

 

“Draco.” Harry clutches the bags to his chest and puts on a mock of his serious-auror-voice that secretly gets Draco hard. “This is political compromise. We may have our ham marketing differences, but the key is to focus on our extra tangy cheese flavoured similarities.”

 

The real challenge, it turns out, is the purchasing. Draco sends Harry to the till first as he remembers they need dental floss, and when he comes back Harry is gesticulating wildly with a panicked look in his eyes.

 

“Draco,” he says, grabbing Draco’s arm. “I don’t know – there’s something wrong with the ham.”

 

“Quel est le problème?” Draco says, turning to the cashier, and she explains to him that it’s 2 for 3 on the ham, and that there’s a discount on the cereal. Once they’re outside, Draco finds Harry staring at him.

 

“What?” says Draco, frowning. Harry just stares.

 

“I didn’t know you could speak French.” He says.

 

Draco huffs and starts walking, tightening his grip on the bulging plastic bags swinging by his knees. “Well,” he says. “Not all of us can be as partial as you.”

 

“It’s kind of hot.” says Harry, walking briskly to keep up. Draco feels his cheeks flare up, and raises his chin.

 

“That’s a weird kink Potter.”

 

“You know,” says Harry, smiling deviously. “I brought the ball gag with us.”

 

Draco stops and turns to face Harry, his eyes wide.

 

“Harry,” he says, his voice aghast. “They’ll have seen it at security.”

 

“And the collar.” Harry adds. “The one with the lovehearts.”

 

“You’re mad.” says Draco. “Completely deluded.”

 

“Am I?” Harry turns his voice sultry. “Why don’t you come over here and say that a little louder, big boy?”

 

“Merlin.” Draco turns around and tries to keep walking. Harry’s laughing as he catches up again.

 

* * *

 

 The Mona Lisa isn’t all it’s cut out to be. Harry wraps a comforting arm around Draco as they both watch on over the crowd of Chinese tourists, all donned in yellow hats and posing for photos.

 

“It’s so small.” says Draco, his brow drooping.

 

“I know.” Harry rubs a warm hand up and down his arm reassuringly. “I know Draco.”

 

“It’s so small…and – and ugly.”

 

“Okay, Draco.” says Harry, steering his crestfallen boyfriend towards the exit and away from the narrow-eyed museum curator. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”

 

Outside, they go and get ice cream and sit in silence in the green and gold park as ducks quack and children drip ice cream all over their chubby fists. Draco licks his 99p with raspberry sauce and two flake sticks solemnly.

 

“Hmm,” says Harry around his double chocolate sundae. “Nice statues.”

 

Draco looks over at the statues.

 

“Impressive.” says Harry. “When you think about the amount of work it takes to do that manually.”

 

Draco blinks and sucks some more ice cream into his mouth. “Their dicks are also small.” He says after a moment, his voice mournful. Harry snorts beside him, and is then leaning in, capturing Draco’s vanilla-raspberry mouth his chocolate one.

 

“Ew.” says Draco, but leans in anyway, sucking Harry’s lips. After a moment they break away.

 

“Hm.” says Draco, once they’ve both finished off their ice creams. “I kind of want a crepe now.”

 

Harry looks away, rolling his eyes and smiling all at the same time, and then puts his hand on Draco’s knee. “It’s too hot for crepes.”

 

“Hm.” Draco makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You should probably take your shirt off.”

 

Harry looks over and smirks.

 

“I thought that was selfish.” He says, taking a lick of the empty ice cream cone. “All those rogue planes.”

 

Draco hums under his breath and examines his French manicure. He’d gotten it earlier, and Harry had groaned and rolled his eyes for the whole two hours.

“There isn’t anything wrong with being selfish.” He murmurs. “Every now and again.”

 

“Now and again.” says Harry.

 

“Sometimes…you just have to treat yourself.”

 

“Treat _my_ self.” says Harry, and lifts a brow.  Draco looks up and licks his lips.

 

Harry turns his gaze skyward and quirks his nose, as if in deep thought.

 

“I suppose…in that case,” He says after some serious deliberation. “…Another crepe wouldn’t hurt.”

 

Draco slaps his hand away and Harry laughs at his expression. “Come on,” he says, pulling him to his feet and kissing his collarbone. “Let’s go be selfish.”

 

* * *

 

 After visiting another museum with Monet paintings and stuffing themselves with Tarte Flambée, Coq au Vin, and Kouign-amann, all washed down with red wine, Draco is in high spirits.

 

“Come on,” Harry laughs as he tugs on Draco’s hands and causes him to tumble against him. Draco’s never seen him laugh so much before. “It’s dark. It’ll be even _more_ romantic.”

 

“It’ll be the same, but now there’ll be actual homeless people pissing.” Draco says, but let’s Harry pull him down to the riverside.

 

“You’re awful,” says Harry, laughter still caught in the back of his throat, and spontaneously wraps an arm around Draco’s waist and a hand around the nape of his neck and pulls him in for a hearty snog. Draco makes a startled sound, and grips onto Harry’s shoulders. He’s just really getting quite into it when Harry suddenly breaks away and drops him into a dip. Draco gives a shout of alarm, and then Harry’s laughing face is so close to him, appearing out of the velvet darkness and the stars, and his arms are so strong around his waist.

 

“Harry,” says Draco.

 

“Welcome to la gay paree,” Harry declares, his voice a half-whisper, and kisses Draco’s nose as he straightens them back up – and Draco wants to say something clever like, “You’re accent is criminal Potter,” or “You’re not even French,” but he’s just so, so simply and wonderfully happy, that there just isn’t any room for mind with all this heart.

 

Several boat tours sail past them as they walk, all lit up with fairylights and camera flashes as fuzzy French voices filter through megaphones, and behind them the black water of the seine cuts unto undulating ripples that flutter long after the disturbances have passed. Harry is kissing Draco’s neck, and Draco thinks that he is a ripple, too.

 

They come to a pause as they near the Eiffel tower, all lit up in a brilliant scattering of yellow. Paris is golden and rich under its night cloak, and Draco leans forward and pushes his lips under Harry’s chin.

 

“Let me,” he whispers, dragging his mouth gently across the skin. “Let me take you home. I can light you up, as well.”

 

And when he pulls back, Harry just smiles at him, smiles such an innocent, peaceful smile, his eyes drooping and soft, and Draco thinks his entire body might already be scattered, and brilliantly so.

 

* * *

 

 The last place they visit is Notre Dame. The white walls rise out of the ground is geometric grandeur, and they wander through the hushed silence and glowing multi-colour patterns that float down onto the cold stone.

 

“I’ve never been to church.” Harry admits quietly as they stand under the famous rose window, and Draco glances over at him.

 

“Never?”

 

Harry shakes his head. “Have you? I thought wizards didn’t do religion.”

 

Draco tips his head to the side, and gives Harry a small smile. “Didn’t you?” he asks. “Magic isn’t a belief system.”

 

“But why do you need to believe in anything,” says Harry. “When you already have so much control?”

 

“Everyone needs something to believe in.” says Draco, his voice soft, and he thinks that these beautiful places of worship aren’t really for the various muggle gods at all, but rather for themselves. God is just a place in your mind, and everybody needs beautiful places for their minds to go.

 

“I suppose.” says Harry.

 

Harry is looking up at the glass, with his eyes as green as any promised land, and Draco goes, and goes, and goes.

**Author's Note:**

> I mcFreakin love paris.


End file.
